


Teach Me

by CaptainWeasley



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (don't worry Nicky gets better I promise), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Enemies to Lovers, I know this isn't historically accurate but neither is canon and at this point who cares, M/M, Nicky's POV, look I love Nicky but he did start out as a crusader in the middle ages, rated M because of violence, there is a lot of Christian fanaticism and xenophobia in this fic so please proceed with caution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainWeasley/pseuds/CaptainWeasley
Summary: "What does it mean, that word?"Yusuf smiles softly."It means our souls belong together."One possible version of how Nicky and Joe first met.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 25
Kudos: 299





	Teach Me

**Author's Note:**

> Doing research for this fic, I learned that there was a language called Sabir that might have been spoken by both Nicky and Joe in the 11th century. [Here's](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mediterranean_Lingua_Franca) the Wikipedia article :)  
> Also, I don't speak a single word of Arabic and just did a lot of googling, so if there are any mistakes in this fic, please let me know and I'll fix them!

The first time it happens, Nicolò doesn't realise what's going on. He's hurting from days of fighting, hours of thirst, weeks of hunger, the smell of gore all around him from the first time the holy army engaged the enemy. The stink of death clings to their clothes, radiates into their minds, and Nicolò can't help but wish to be back home sometimes, trying to recall the smell of the flowers that grow there as best he can.

The first time it happens, it feels like his back is torn open—but at this point, Nicky isn't sure how exactly to tell reality from nightmare, so when he wakes up lying in a puddle of mud and blood, he can't say exactly how he got there, doesn't know why his body is whole even though he could clearly feel the excruciating agony. Maybe God sent him a vision, maybe the pain means something. At this point, he wouldn't exactly rule it out.

He gets on his knees and prays for guidance.

**

The second time is different: this time, Nicolò can see his opponent quite clearly, can see the man's curved blade coming towards him, and he doesn't evade the blow fast enough. His throat is torn open, and he wants to scream but can't; the pain is driving all else from his mind, hot blood is seeping into his jerkin, and the feeling of desperately gasping for air while choking on his own blood is the worst Nicolò has ever felt in his life. 

He dies. He's sure he dies.

The last thing he sees is his opponent's face: strange features framed by dark curls, his eyes sparkling with something that Nicolò thinks must be hate... This man is an enemy of God's holy plan, an enemy of goodness and progress, and as darkness falls over him, Nicolò desperately prays to the Lord for forgiveness: he failed in the holy mission.

And then, he wakes up again.

**

He dreams of two women: laughing together, fighting together. He doesn't know them but he can feel they mean something to him, or they should mean something... God works in mysterious ways, and in the morning, Nicolò thanks him dutifully for showing him this path, even though he doesn't understand what it means yet. 

The one thing that is clear to him is that God has given him a second chance to rid the world of heathens, and he is not going to squander it again.

**

Nicolò kills more violently now, secure in the knowledge that he is doing the Lord's work. He has been given a miracle, has been healed in a way that only God himself would be capable of, and that must mean that the path he's on is a just one. He stops counting how many he kills. He stops hesitating when they're on their knees, begging for mercy in their strange language. He doesn't stop being haunted by their eyes—how they change when their souls go from their bodies, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, sometimes horribly and sometimes mercifully, but with every kill, Nicolò can see that spark vanish, and all that's left are dull and broken eyes. 

He prays to God to make it stop, but he is not granted a second miracle.

**

When he meets the man again, the man who killed him, there's a shudder of disgust running through Nicolò's whole being, disgust and fear. He cannot let this man triumph again, this must be what God has brought him back to life for, this must be his destiny. He must kill him.

The man does not recognize him. Nicolò supposes that to him, a heathen, all of God's just fighters must look alike, just like all the heathens look alike to Nicolò. Not this one, though. Nicolò will never forget the man who killed him.

He fights viciously, brutally, with a single objective on his mind, not even considering his own survival. When his sword is buried deep inside his opponent's chest, Nicolò comes back to himself. He did it. His fingers on the sword handle are trembling, and the wet sounds when he pulls the sword out of the lifeless body before him make him feel sick.

He takes a few tentative steps back, then turns and leaves as quickly as he can, almost horrified by his own victory. He can't understand why.

**

That night, Nicolò dreams of the man. The only detail he can recall with clarity upon waking are those dark eyes, burning with emotion, not dull and broken at all, the way they should be. He knows the stranger is dead, and yet he is still shuddering, still terrified. He remembers what it felt like to choke on his own blood, how it had reduced him to being a fragile and helpless _thing_ , the taste of iron suffocating him, how he had tried in vain to cling to the world, to life, to his own body...

Nicolò stumbles out of his tent and throws up. 

**

Almost a week passes before he meets the man again. His first reaction is that this is just his imagination playing a trick on him, he has been thinking of him, dreaming of him, and those heathens all look the same, anyway. But then, they make eye-contact, and Nicolò can see the stranger's surprised reaction, can see the _recognition_ , and no language barrier in the world can make him misunderstand this. They look at each other and they both know—Nicolò isn't sure what he knows. He has been saved by the grace of God, but how can that man possibly have survived? Nicolò knows that nobody can recover from a sword through the heart, not without divine intervention, and the stranger is a heathen, an enemy of God. The Lord would not save such a man. 

Maybe these heathens are in league with demons, giving them dark and horrible powers. The one standing before him cannot be a man, he must be a demon, it is the only explanation. That must be why God sent His holy army to kill the heathens, and why He brought Nicolò back to life: to kill this abomination.

Nicolò throws himself at the man with vicious, righteous fury. The fight all around him, his dying brothers in arms, the screaming, the stink of death, Nicolò tunes it all out. 

This time, there is no clear winner. They both end up bleeding out on the ground, Nicolò's face is pressed into the sandy earth and the sparse, trampled grass, and the agony of dying is suffocating him. He can hear the shouts of one of his comrades, a man who has fought by his side for two months, can feel trembling fingers on his face...

When he wakes up, Francesco is staring at him in fear and awe, and he pulls away his hand like he burned himself on Nicolò's skin.

"But you... Nico, you were dead!"

Nicolò groans, averts his eyes from Francesco's fearful gaze. If he woke up, that means his mission is not complete—

"Behind you!" He coughs out, "Watch out!"

His warning comes too late. Francesco's head is separated from his body by a curved blade, and Nicolò watches his lifeless form collapse next to him.

The stranger, the demon, stands over him, and if he were a man, Nicolò would say he looks shaken. But he's a demon, a devil's spawn, and those emotions must be an illusion, a lie to trick Nicolò into showing mercy.

He grabs his sword and thrusts it at the stranger, misses due to the awkward angle and the next thing he feels is cold iron cutting into his stomach. He begs God for forgiveness for failing in his mission again.

**

The demon kills him several more times, stabbing him somewhere else each time Nicolò wakes up, like he wants to test what works. The continuous pain makes Nicolò delirious, and after a while he starts laughing each time he dies.

The enemy says something in a language Nicolò doesn't understand, and kills Nicolò once more, this time separating the head from his body almost completely. This hurts so much that Nicolò wishes he could stay dead for good, just to be rid of the pain. It is a fast way to die, though, and when he comes back to himself his throat is almost completely mended. The pain is still excruciating, and this time, Nicolò doesn't laugh. He begs the Lord for mercy in his mother tongue, even though speaking hurts, too. He's past caring. He begs to be allowed to go to heaven, _please let me go to heaven_...

He looks up and meets the eyes of the demon, and there is a look of pity there, pity and fear. No, it is an illusion, Nicolò reminds himself, a devil's trick. Demons do not feel pity.

"You are a monster," the demon says in Sabir. His voice is almost gentle, like he's trying to convince himself of this.

"No," Nicolò whispers hoarsely, trying to remember all the Sabir he knows, "you are a demon."

There's a glint of surprise in the man's eyes, like he hadn't considered that. He says something in his own language, his voice lower and softer now, strangely musical. Nicolò wants to hate the sound of it but doesn't.

"It is possible," the man finally says in Sabir, and then, he slashes Nicolò's throat for a second time.

**

Nicolò is granted another miracle: When he wakes up this time, another crusader is fighting the demon, whose back is turned—Nicolò rolls over, grasps his sword and forces himself up as fast as he can, although his body feels like he's been trampled by a herd of oxen. He knows that a mortal man doesn't stand a chance against the stranger, and does what he must to save his comrade.

"Demon," he says, loudly, "leave him!"

Instead of taking Nicolò's soul into heaven, God has decided to bring him back to life to fight this creature, and he will submit to the will of the Almighty. Only when the man is turning towards him does Nicolò realise he could have run away. He won't, though. He won't run from his holy mission.

Their duel is frantic, both of them less and less concerned by the thought of getting injured. They both keep healing: slashes to Nicolò's arms and legs hurt fiercely, but they can't make him stop fighting, and as long as he avoids injuries that would normally kill him, he can stay on his feet.

He loses his sense of time. He feels numb and cold but alive, so alive, too alive. He watches the demon intently: the thing is that he looks so _human_ , his reactions are so human, his eyes are so human. Nicolò has to keep reminding himself that all of this is an illusion brought on by the devil.

**

After a few hours, the sounds of the battle are barely audible any more: the crusaders have gained some ground, moved on to another battlefield beyond a hill that the day before must have been lush and green, which is now muddy and trampled, piles of broken bodies and bloodied clothes strewn across it. Nicolò tries to avoid looking at this sight whenever possible.

It feels fateful, two unkillable beings fighting surrounded by silence and desolation, it feels fateful in a way that is heavy and terrifying and inconceivable. Nicolò wishes he could have died the first time, wishes God hadn't chosen him. He is locked in an eternal battle, a battle he can neither win nor lose, but if the Lord requires this of him then Nicolò shall oblige. 

How long will he be able to keep this up without food, without water, without sleep? And how long will his opponent last?

**

The first one to collapse from exhaustion is the stranger. Nicolò slashes him across the face, deep and hard, then collapses onto the ground as well, like his body just waited for this, like his enemy's failure has given him permission to be weak. The sun has almost set.

Nicolò watches the demon draw in a deep breath, life flowing back into him, and he can't even move his arm to kill him again. He watches skin mend itself, it is unnatural, unholy, and yet there is a power in it, too. It makes Nicolò shudder.

"Peace," Nicolò chokes out, and it sounds too much like a plea. "Night."

In his state of exhaustion, he isn't proficient enough in Sabir to string these concepts into a complete sentence.

The demon nods.

"Peace," he agrees. "For the night."

**

Nicolò dreams of the two women again: their garments are strange, stranger even than what the heathens in the holy land like to wear. He does not dream of the demon, and he wakes up vaguely disappointed.

**

It's early, before sunrise. Nicolò is utterly cold and miserable, he had fallen asleep right there on the spot the previous day, and the damp, uncomfortable ground hasn't done anything to improve his health. In a way, he feels even worse than he did before he collapsed, and he can't help the groan that escapes his lips.

The demon is still sleeping, and Nicolò loathes seeing him like this: so vulnerable, so defenseless, so human. Seeing him like this makes it harder to hate him, harder to want to harm him, but he has to, it is God's will.

Nicolò sits up, sword already in hand, then decides against slaying the demon in his sleep. It wouldn't do any good anyway, he would just heal again. They both have similar strength, they both can't die, maybe they are supposed to be duelling honorably until one of them gains the upper hand, fair and square. It's not like the Almighty has given any instructions to go with His miracle, so Nicolò decides that he's probably supposed to best the enemy in a fair fight.

He watches his opponent sleep, takes note of the smooth brown skin, the tight dark curls of hair, the full beard, the twitching eyelids, the slightly parted lips, the rise and fall of his chest with every even breath... With a jolt, Nicolò realises that he likes looking at the stranger. He has always liked the form of men, but this is a demon, a _heathen_! There are so many good, God-fearing men in the world, there is no reason at all to find joy in looking at his enemy.

Nicolò turns away, gets on his knees and prays to God to guide his hand in the next fight, so he can finally kill the demon and become mortal again. It is unnatural, healing like he does, it goes against everything Nicolò knows. He does not want it.

He prays in Latin first, but switches to his native tongue after a while, because he has never been taught how to say _I am afraid of being locked in unending, eternal battle with an unkillable demon_ in Latin. _I am afraid that you have forsaken me and will never invite me into heaven._

When Nicolò speaks the Lord's Prayer, his eyes are wet. 

**

Nicolò turns around to find that his enemy is gone. The first thing he feels is relief, but soon afterwards, dread is rising within him. This isn't over, far from it. This is merely a delay of the inevitable, and Nicolò knows with absolute certainty that he will meet the demon again. He wonders what he is supposed to do: wait for his opponent to return? No, he decides, he's not going to sit there, uselessly, letting the demon decide when to attack him again. He's going to rejoin the army, keep fighting in the Lord's name.

Nicolò's clothes are disgusting, even more so than usual, full of mud and dried blood. He hates the smell of them, but there's nothing to be done. He hasn't seen a single river in days, not even a stream or a pond. There have been wells, many of them poisoned by the heathens to slow the crusaders' invasion. Nicolò forces himself to ignore all of that, then sets out after his comrades.

**

Finding the army camp is not difficult: trampled earth, discarded and broken weapons and torn clothing, bodies of Christians and heathens and horses, and dried-out puddles of blood are leading him right where he needs to go. There's a heretical thought inside him that Nicolò will have to do penace for, but which he can't seem to shake: is this really God's will? _Love thy neighbor as thyself_... Nicolò himself used to preach this to the villagers he was responsible for as a priest, and no matter how he looks at it, this devastation and death is just not how an act of love manifests. But the pope said this was God's command, taking back the holy land in His name, and who is Nicolò to doubt the pope?

**

When he reaches the camp, he finds he fits right in: almost every single man is filthy, many with blood on their clothes, although Nicolò highly doubts that even one of these soldiers has as much of his own blood on his jerkin as Nicolò does. He has a gut feeling that he ignores, telling him this is not the right place for him, that he is destined to fight the demon and no-one else.

He finds out that the commander he fought under died in the previous day's attack, and he is reassigned to somebody from a region whose accent he barely understands. He gets, well not a clean jerkin, but one that's not as filthy as his old one, at least. He has no way of replacing his other clothes. 

He eats. He drinks. He sharpens his sword. He seeks out someone who will fuck him, to make himself forget the demon's face. It doesn't work: that night he dreams again of smooth brown skin, black curls and dark, expressive eyes.

**

During the next battle, Nicolò's heart isn't in it. He slays enemies because he is under orders, he kills because he must, but he feels nothing, neither joy nor anguish, at taking these lives. Afterwards, he is frightened of himself: is he losing his soul? Maybe he is turning into a demon himself, maybe his resurrections are not a gift given to him by God but a curse. Nicolò wishes he were one of the prophets of old: when the Lord chose them, at least they were told what to expect, visited by angels or seeing the Almighty in burning bushes... Nicolò has been given unnatural powers without explanation or reason. In the evening, he quietly asks the Lord why He has forsaken him. There is no answer.

**

On a clear, sunny morning, Nicolò is scouting a nearby village with three other soldiers: he likes none of them, but doesn't particularly dislike any of them, either. Two of them are from a duchy in the north, speaking such a strange dialect of Frankish that Nicolò has trouble understanding any of what they're saying. It's not like Nicolò knows a lot of Frankish himself, but still. The other man is very quiet, but does seem to understand Nicolò's own tongue, at least judging by the way he follows his directions without complications.

The settlement they're sneaking through seems utterly abandoned: houses are devoid of ornaments and, in some cases, furniture, pens are empty, and the only signs of life are the strange birds that are lining the roofs, cawing at the four intruders.

The Franks take turns opening the door of each of the houses to peer inside, and after ten or fifteen houses, almost in the middle of the village, they come face to face with a little boy, hiding in one of the empty houses. The boy is old enough to stand, but just barely, and he looks at them with big eyes.

"Baba?"

The northerner raises his sword.

"No!" Nicolò says sharply, and the sound cracks through the humid air like a whip. "This is a child!"

"He's a heathen," the northerner counters, like it's the most natural thing in the world, having to kill heathen children.

Nicolò draws his own sword, gripped by singular purpose.

"Leave him," he says more quietly, but there can be no doubt that he is deadly serious.

"Baba!" The child starts to cry, more words in a language Nicolò does not comprehend tumbling out of his mouth, but it isn't hard to figure out why the boy is distraught.

The Frank wants to stab at the child, but Nicolò has expected this, and he thrusts his own blade forward to protect the boy. All three men round on him, then, with varying degrees of hatred and mistrust on their faces. Nicolò turns to his fellow countryman.

"You as well?"

The man shrugs, as if to indicate that the northerners are correct, the child _is_ a heathen. The betrayal stings, but Nicolò sighs and accepts it. He made his choice, and it was the right one.

The fight does not last long. Nicolò supposes he has an unfair advantage over mortal men, as he can fight without fear of failure, fear of death. He wonders whether God will forgive him for slaying three fellow crusaders to protect a heathen boy—then again, he has been granted holy powers, and if the Lord didn't want him to use them, He could have taken them away at any time.

The child is quiet, staring at the bloody bodies in front of him. Nicolò kneels down.

"Come on, kiddo," he says in his native Genoese, as gentle and soothing as possible. "I wonder where your parents are... We'll find them, alright?"

He extends a hand towards the child, slowly, so he doesn't scare him. The boy looks at him with big, frightened eyes, and doesn't move from his spot.

"It's alright," Nicolò promises, wishing he knew at least some basic vocabulary of the child's mother tongue so he could make himself understood. "I'm not going to harm you. We'll find your family together, but only if you come with me."

The boy suddenly decides that all of this is too strange for him, and he hides behind the door frame. Nicolò can still see him, of course. He smiles wistfully as he remembers his sister's kids back home, and how he used to play with them when they were little.

"Oh no, where are you?" He asks, affecting his voice in a way he hopes is universal across languages when pretending to search for hidden children. "What on Earth will I tell your parents when they demand to know how I lost you?"

The boy doesn't come out. Nicolò decides to change tactics: he settles down a few metres away from the house, carefully avoiding the bodies of his late brothers in arms, and starts whistling the tune of one of the nursery rhymes he can remember from his childhood while cleaning his comrades' blood off his sword. He's aware that the optics aren't ideal, but what can he do? He's not going to leave this frightened little boy to his own devices, and the sword needs to be cleaned.

He tries to think of a way to make the child trust him. Food, he thinks, if only he had food to offer! Food is a clear sign of peace. And, incidentally, also a pretty good way to lure children out of hiding. But Nicolò doesn't even have any bread with him, and so far, the houses have been devoid of ingredients, so he can't cook anything. 

After a while, the boy does join him outside, mostly out of curiosity, probably. He's not quite old enough to understand the concept of a holy war, or the concept of enemy soldiers, Nicolò thinks. Another heretical thought passes his mind: maybe the world would be better off if nobody understood these concepts.

"My name is Nicolò." Nicolò points towards his own chest. "Ni-co-lò."

"Nikhulu?"

This makes him smile.

"Almost. What's your name?"

He points at the boy to make his meaning clear.

"Ana esmi Muhammad," the boy answers timidly.

"Come on, kiddo," Nicolò says gently, standing up and holding out his hands. "Let's get you back to your family."

**

Nicolò figures that the villagers can't be too far, since the boy hasn't died of thirst, and he doesn't act like he's been going without food for too long. And if they took their animals and their belongings with them their pace would have been slow... Dreading the inevitable confrontation with the heathens yet nevertheless determined, Nicolò sets out road into enemy territory, following the tracks carved into the ground by fleeing villagers, a heathen child on his shoulders.

It doesn't take long until the boy starts babbling. Nicolò makes comments in his own language whenever he pauses, and even though the conversation is nonsensical, it gives them both the impression that they are communicating. When Muhammad falls silent, Nicolò sings to him.  
As expected, it doesn't take more than three hours until Nicolò can hear the voices of people, the sounds of wagons and animals, the high-pitched screams of children playing.

**

There's a guard who draws his weapon as soon as he sees Nicolò approach in his crusader armor, but Nicolò points at Muhammad whom he's now carrying with his left arm, then holds up his free hand to signal that he is not here to fight.

The guard gives him a piercing look, then waves at him to allow him to approach, and shouts something in the direction of the villagers' camp.

Muhammad is restless, fidgeting in Nicolò's arms, saying things Nicolò has no way of understanding.

"I'm sure we'll find your family," Nicolò promises, and inwardly begs God to actually grant him success.

As he nears the temporary settlement, it becomes clear that their arrival stirs up quite a commotion among the villagers. One of the women runs towards the dirt road, a baby securely bound to her torso in a wrap, followed by two girls who look at Nicolò with big eyes.

The woman shouts something, and Muhammad waves at her, suddenly very lively. Nicolò sets him down, and the boy runs towards his mother without looking back: the sight is both comical and touching.

"Muhammad, habibi!" The woman cries, flinging her arms around her son. "Alhamd lilah!"

She looks up at Nicolò, who has stayed back, unwilling to get too close to these people, not wanting to frighten them. He isn't here to fight.

"Shukraan," she says with tears in her eyes, and more words that Nicolò doesn't understand. 

Another woman of the village hurries to rummage in one of the packs and then comes up to Nicolò, holding food in her hands, obviously intending for Nicolò to take it. Nicolò can't help but smile, remembering how earlier that day, he himself wished to be able to give Muhammad food as a peace offering. The meaning of the gesture is clear. 

After a moment's hesitation, Nicolò takes the proffered food. He nods his head awkwardly at the strange woman and at Muhammad's mother who is now both crying and laughing while Muhammad chatters away rapidly, but before he can turn to leave, he sees a familiar figure. The sight makes his throat constrict painfully.

For a moment he considers dropping the food and drawing his sword, but the stranger doesn't look like he intends to harm him this time. His hands aren't anywhere near his weapon, in any case.

"Why did you do that?"

Nicolò looks at his enemy, not sure how to fully answer this question when he doesn't have the words necessary.

"He is a child," he finally says, and maybe those are all the words he needs. After all, that is, essentially, what his longer answer would have boiled down to.

There is a strange glint in the demon's eyes, like he is reassessing Nicolò, trying to figure him out. Nicolò can't help the shiver running through his body at being sized up like that. If this were anybody else, someone from his own army, someone back home in Genova, someone from the farthest region of the Frankish Empire even, Nicolò would let his face go soft, would flutter his eyelashes, smirk a little—but he can't. The creature before him is still a demon, is still his enemy.

"It was a noble deed. The villagers will not forget."

From the way the demon says it, Nicolò isn't sure the remark is really about villagers. He is gripped by sudden and futile longing: wanting to run his fingers through that curly black hair, pull the demon close and kiss him until he can't breathe, kiss him to death until he wakes up again—Nicolò presses his lips together, trying to clear his mind of the unwanted images.

"I am..." He searches for the right words. "I am an enemy. Still."

It comes out softer than he means to say it, almost like an apology. Nicolò is pretty sure now that the conversation has stopped being about the villagers.

There's a very small smile on the demon's lips.

"Maybe someday our peoples can live in peace," he suggests. There's a tone in his voice that makes Nicolò think about getting on his knees, looking up at his enemy's face and closing his mouth around his hard, leaking cock— 

"If they ever do, come find me again. My name is Yusuf al-Kaysani."

Nicolò nods, slightly dazed from his inappropriate desire.

"Nicolò di Genova," he introduces himself. "Maybe someday."

**

On his way back to the army camp, Nicolò starts to panic. His reconnaissance team is dead, slain by Nicolò's own hand. It's almost evening already, how is he going to explain coming back so late, and alone? He could say his comrades were killed by heathens, that he himself was taken prisoner... But a lie of such magnitude is a sin that Nicolò cannot reconcile with his conscience. Then he thinks about the villagers: he knows where they are. He's going to be asked whether he knows, and if he tells his superiors, the villagers are going to die.

Nicolò doesn't think they deserve to die. What did he rescue Muhammad for, if the boy is going to be killed the very next day? Nicolò remembers Muhammad's mother, her kind eyes, her joy and relief at seeing her son again, her two daughters, the sleeping baby pressed close to her chest... Even if the pope himself told him to kill them, Nicolò isn't sure he could do it. 

Nicolò sits down under a tree on the wayside. If he hurried, he could make it back to camp before sunset, he is sure about that. He keeps sitting under the tree, though, drinking the last of the water in his waterskin. He also eats the food the woman of the village gave him: it is strange, unlike anything he knows, but it is delicious. 

With every passing minute, it seems harder to convince himself to return to the army. The core of the problem is that suddenly, Nicolò doesn't want to: he doesn't want to kill any more honest and hard-working people, just because they happen to live in the holy land. He doesn't want to keep dying and waking up on the field of battle, and he also doesn't want to kill the demon again. That last one is an uncomfortable realisation, because it probably goes against God's will. Then again, Nicolò doesn't actually know what God's will is, he just assumed it was his destiny to kill that man, it seemed so obvious at the time.

Yet when he thinks of him now— _Yusuf al-Kaysani_ , his brain supplies helpfully—he does not want to harm him. Quite the opposite.

He thinks of Yusuf as the last rays of the setting sun disappear behind a distant mountain range: his eyes (so dark and passionate), his mouth (which Nicolò longs to kiss), his hands (would he grip Nicolò's cock the same way he handles his weapon?), the way he moves, the sound of his voice when he speaks in his mother tongue, so gentle... 

And then, he thinks of the army he has to return to, or should return to, in any case, because he has nowhere else to go, because he doesn't speak the local language, because he can't just run away with a _heathen_.

Nicolò gets on his knees and prays for guidance, for a sign, for _something_. As always, God stays silent.

When Nicolò lies down on his back and stares at the stars, the sun has long set and the moonlight makes his surroundings glow eerily. He is cold and the ground is uncomfortable.

"You didn't return to your people."

Nicolò jumps out of his skin and sits up, swearing in his native tongue.

Yusuf sits down next to him elegantly, smirking at him. Against all better judgement, the sight makes Nicolò's stomach flutter.

Suddenly, an idea comes to him: maybe, God isn't staying silent at all. Maybe, this _is_ the sign and he just misinterpreted it the whole time.

"No," he answers, stating the obvious. Not for the first time, he wishes he knew how to express himself more fluently in Sabir.

"You could have made it. They are camping less than an hour away."

Nicolò frowns at the man.

"You watch me?"

"Obviously. I needed to know whether you would tell them where the villagers are. I am their—"

He uses a word Nicolò doesn't know and can't guess from context. 

"Their what?"

He repeats the word, then sees the incomprehension on Nicolò's face.

"They pay me and I fight."

Nicolò smiles.

"Good trade. Pay money, get a demon."

Yusuf laughs, and the sound is intoxicating to Nicolò.

"They don't know about my..."

Now, here is a word that neither of them know. Maybe there isn't even a word for it, in any language.

"Blessing," Yusuf suggests.

At the same time, Nicolò says, "Curse."

They look at each other, and for the first time, Nicolò truly feels connected to this man, more than by killing each other or by dreaming of his eyes. Their fates are bound by this, somehow, be it a blessing or a curse, he is sure of that now.

Nicolò knows he isn't going to kill Yusuf again. And he has stopped thinking of him as a demon, too, deep down.

"I think it is today," he says, then realises too late that this is a non sequitur to their conversation.

"What is today?"

"Someday. Peace."

There's a small smile on Yusuf's lips, a sight that makes Nicolò's heart beat faster.

"You won't return to your army?"

"No," Nicolò says, and in that moment he realises that he means it.

"In that case, yes, I think so, too."

They sit in silence for a while. There's a strong wind rustling the leaves of the tree they're sitting under, and Nicolò watches it shake bushes and grass and other, more distant trees in the glow of the moonlight. He can feel it, too, biting into his skin, but he can't bring himself to care, not when Yusuf is so close.

After a while, Yusuf says something in his own language, and a shiver runs down Nicolò's spine: what he wouldn't give to hear Yusuf's voice more often. Once again, he has the urge to run away with this man, even though they barely know each other.

"What does it mean?"

He looks at Yusuf, who's wearing that smile again, a little mischievous this time.

"It is hard to translate. _Your eyes are very bright_ doesn't really do it justice."

Nicolò looks at Yusuf, and this time he does let his face go soft, and he does let himself return Yusuf's smile.

"I like your eyes, as well."

They look at each other for one heartbeat, two heartbeats, then Nicolò leans in and Yusuf leans in at the same time, and Nicolò's lips finally touch those of his enemy.

No, not his enemy. Nicolò doesn't know what they are to each other now, but one thing he is sure of is that they will never be enemies again.

They kiss for a long time. Both of them are taking their time with it, and the experience is gentle and careful in a way that not a lot of things in Nicolò's life have been. 

He runs his hands through Yusuf's curly hair, over his beard, and the other man seems to be equally fascinated by Nicolò's straight hair and his stubble.

Yusuf kisses his neck, too, making Nicolò suck in a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry for hurting you here," he says quietly. "You looked like you were in a lot of pain."

"Make me forget," Nicolò pleads.

Luckily, what comes next doesn't require Nicolò to use a lot of words. Kisses and smiles and moans and sighs don't need a translation, and when Yusuf whispers in his ear his tone of voice is enough to make Nicolò rock hard, even if he doesn't understand what his lover is saying.

Their swords are the first things to be discarded, far away, as far away as possible. It is both out of practical concerns because they very much don't want to hurt each other any more, especially not on accident, but also highly symbolic. Their clothes follow soon after, crusader armor and heathen fabrics mingling around them, the softest pieces of clothing underneath them to make the hard ground bearable. 

Finally, just the two of them remain, freed of the burdens of their societies: two men, bound by the same blessing, fated by the same curse.

Nicolò calls Yusuf _love_ and _my darling_ in a language Yusuf doesn't understand, and Yusuf calls him _ya hayati_ and _rohi_. The meaning of the words could not be clearer.

**

Afterwards, they lie in each other's arms, limbs tangled up. Nicolò thinks they fit together perfectly, like they were created for each other. Maybe they were.

"I want to..."

He begins quietly, but he's too sated and too exhausted to remember the right words in Sabir.

"What do you want, Nicolò?"

Nicolò smiles against Yusuf's skin.

"Nico," he suggests. "Nicolò is... official. Nico is for love."

"Well, what do you want, Nico?"

"Go for you. Be for you."

He kisses Yusuf, hoping he will understand this.

"You want to run away with me?"

"Yes. You want this?"

There is a moment of utter terror when Yusuf doesn't respond at once. What if he sends Nicolò away? What is he supposed to do then, after having experienced _this_?

"Yes," Yusuf says, then, and there is not a sliver of doubt in his voice.

Nicolò kisses him again, smiling, caressing Yusuf's skin with his fingers. He wants to touch Yusuf until he knows every part of him like the back of his own hand, and when he has learned everything there is to know, he wants to put that knowledge to good use. They have all the time in the world, literally.

"You have not family?"

Yusuf sighs.

"I do have a wife." He says, with a kind of resigned sadness in his voice. "She will not miss me. And my children..."

He seems wistful for a moment, then shakes his head against Nicolò's skin.

"They are safe and cared for. They will live without me."

Nicolò frowns. He doesn't want to keep this man he now loves from his own children. He cannot be so cruel.

"But you miss them?"

Yusuf leans up to look at him: his eyes are soft in the moonlight, but there is something rebellious there, as well, a spark that makes frantically fluttering butterflies appear in Nicolò's stomach.

"The reason why I came here in the first place, why I didn't stay back home, living my comfortable, boring life as a merchant... I wanted to get away. I was searching for something all this time, I didn't even know what I was looking for. Not until I found you, rohi."

Nicolò's whole being feels very soft, suddenly, Yusuf has the power to do that to him. Nicolò wants Yusuf to make him feel like this every day.

He wishes he could say something as profound and meaningful in Sabir, but unfortunately, his ability to understand the language far exceeds his ability to speak it.

"What does it mean?"

Yusuf smiles softly.

"It means our souls belong together."

"Rohi," Nicolò tries out the term himself, making Yusuf chuckle.

"No, you say it like this: _rohi_."

Nicolò tries, again and again, until he gets it right. When he does, Yusuf kisses him, long and hard.

"The day you first killed me was the luckiest day of my life," Nicolò says in his native tongue, wishing he had a way of telling Yusuf this. Then, in Sabir, he adds, "Your language. Teach me."

Yusuf raises an eyebrow at him.

"Right now? That could take a while."

Nicolò laughs.

"Every day," he says, and it is understood by both of them as a promise.

**

Nicolò ends up learning how to pronounce ten different terms of endearment in Arabic before Yusuf ever teaches him how to say, _Hello, my name is Nicolò_. In both his and Yusuf's opinion, this is the best way to learn the language.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a small sequel to this called [Guide Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25793245), set in the modern day :)


End file.
